Woven
by Dr. SilverRose
Summary: Farfarello's mind is a very strange place. Watch out for the blatant yaoi and odd humor in the second chapter.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Okay, this is what happens when you write after a two day stretch sans sleep. --

This story is written in Farfarello's P.O.V., and what a strange viewpoint it is. See if you can guess who is who, here. If you get it right, I'll give you a cookie! This is rated PG for shonen-ai hints and general weirdness. I categorized it as a 'PWP' because I really didn't know what the hell to call it… Oo

Comments and criticisms are heartily begged for.

-Dr. SilverRose

Woven

Easier to think of them all as strands in a tapestry-

First: a bright and fuzzy orange thread that, when pulled out of the larger design and held, automatically twines about your fingers and is impossible to untangle. It's an ugly yarn-like sort of thread that clashes with everything you own and clings like an abandoned child…but you like it nonetheless.

Second: a sleek white thread, hopelessly bland and impossible to extricate from the rest. Smelling of authority, gunpowder and everything you've set yourself against. A singularly boring thread, but it holds the rest together.

Third: a black thread, interlaced with speckles of gray. Big solemn eyes, a waif-like body and the power to topple kingdoms…hard to liken to a thread, at all, but the metaphor still holds true.

Suppose, then, that you are a red thread, frayed and worn. Orange thread is your friend because it gives you substance. White thread you put up with for the stability it enforces. Black thread isn't necessary for your survival, really, but you couldn't do without it, either.

These threads insinuate themselves into the pattern at large, twisting and shaping, regardless of a cruel deity's desires and whims…

So what is this new thread?

Red like yours and quickly unraveling-

A new thread, a strange thread…but something quite like familiar…

A Weiss thread, certainly, for all that it is dyed in blood, just like yours. Can it be woven in and made to fit?

Is it worth the trouble?

Or will one new thread be all it takes to warp and destroy the tenuous patterns that you and yours have fashioned for yourselves?

Better not to take that risk.

(Farfarello pauses at the sight of Aya, unconscious and slumped against the wall. A stiletto already in hand, he stoops to the fallen assassin's level-)

No matter how much you crave a kindred thread.

(-the blade retracts and, smiling almost shyly, Farfarello gets to his feet and hurries to catch up to the rest of his team.)

Not yet, anyway.

-Owari-


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Just when I thought I couldn't get any odder…

This is the sequel to "Woven" and though this fic can stand alone, it would probably make a little more sense if one were to read both parts. But, then again, probably not…

Anyway, this fic is rated R for yaoi, language, mentions of sex and strange humor. The pairing is Aya/Farfarello, whom I most definitely do not claim ownership of.

Comments and criticisms are appreciated.

-Dr. SilverRose

Bound

Aya Fujimiya doesn't give a damn about Berserker's fucked up metaphors.

All this rambling talk of threads and tapestries only serves to give the red headed (and unusually red-eyed) assassin a terrible, pounding headache. Of course, he already had a headache to begin with, what with having been knocked silly by the hilt of his own sword…

…which continues to be the most embarrassing injury, ever…

Aya winces and drags his unwieldy consciousness back to the matter at hand, which predominantly involves him being in pain and chained to a low ceiling beam, and Schwarz's Berserker giving him a long and largely incomprehensible speech about string, or something equally ridiculous.

Not the most tenable situation, to say the least. Aya, deciding to remedy this, speaks up:

"What are you talking about?" He snaps, groggily.

Berserker takes a moment to realize that he is the one Aya is addressing and blinks in frank surprise. "You don't know?" He asks; sounding rather put out about this.

Irritated, Aya snarls. "I'm an assassin, not a fucking seamstress!"

Berserker nods, his good cheer restored by this inanity. "I know that." Then the madman sets off on his thread-centric spiel, again, and Aya bites back a scream of frustration.

It has often been said that Aya hates people. This is not true! He's actually rather fond of people, much in the way that paleontologists are fond of dinosaurs. That is to say, he likes them dead and quite unable to bother him.

Berserker is not a dinosaur.

This is made readily apparent by the fact that the cyclopean madman is very much alive and mammalian and still talking.

And still not making much sense, either…

Clearing his throat in a would-be-patient sort of way, Aya interrupts the talkative psychopath once more.

"You're not making any sense." Far be it from him to be too good to state the obvious, especially when it is quite apparent that some people have terrible difficulty in grasping it for themselves.

Berserker stops in the middle of an especially confusing sentence, which hadn't even been in a language Aya could make heads or tails of, and stares.

It's a disturbing stare, really.

Quite focused…unnerving, even.

"Quit that!" Aya barks, harshly. He doesn't allow his own teammates to eyeball him in such a manner; he'll be thrice-damned if he lets an enemy ogle him like that.

Berserker blinks, apparently coming to some sort of dawning realization.

"You haven't understood a single word I've said, have you?" He asks; closing the distance between them to stand nose-tip to nose-tip with Aya, who is, understandably, quite flustered by now.

Aya shakes his head, glaring. "All I've garnered is that you seem to have a string-fetish." He replies; going endearingly red in the face as he mentally damns his choice of words.

Berserker, inexplicably, grins.

Odd how something so simple can make such a difference…

Aya reflects that Berserker looks rather nice when he smiles, like an oft-mended porcelain doll. Whole and unscarred, he imagines that the maniac would be quite pretty.

Aya blinks rapidly in horror.

Surely that was just the mild concussion talking.

But that doesn't change the undeniable fact that Berserker is suddenly kissing him, with lips that are surprisingly soft and wonderfully skilled. It's rather pleasant, really, in a reality shattering sort of way.

Shocked and deciding that he is probably going to Hell, anyway, Aya kisses the madman back, hesitantly.

Taking this as an invitation, Berserker's hands begin to roam over the bound assassin's body, possessively.

Shaking his head frantically, Aya gasps. "Berserker, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Berserker's hands still and he gives Aya a quizzical look. "I should think it was obvious, kitten."

"Don't call me kitten."

"Then don't call me Berserker."

"I don't know your name, idiot. What the hell am I supposed to call you?" Aya asks, distracted for a moment.

"Farfarello."

"Fall-fall-erro-ru?" Aya tries, mangling the strange, foreign name beyond recognition.

Farfarello laughs.

At him!

Indignant, Aya struggles against his bonds, forgetting to be afraid. He looks like an offended cat and Farfarello says as much.

"I hate you." Aya deadpans, struggling futilely. "Now let me go."

Farfarello shakes his head, his eye still sparkling with poorly suppressed amusement. "Now why would I do a fool thing like that?" He asks, industriously and single-mindedly setting to the task of getting Aya's trench coat open.

Ignoring Aya's protests, Farfarello triumphantly uncovers that singularly hideous orange sweater that Aya often wears and Schuldig secretly fancies.

This is just further proof that the telepath must be colorblind as well as tasteless.

Aya growls at the madman as Farfarello undoes the button of too-tight pants and begins to push them down, to reveal Aya's cock which is, most tellingly, already half-erect.

Farfarello looks up at Aya, whose facial expression is amusingly torn between anger, mounting panic and embarrassment.

"I'm not going to hurt you, kit-…ah, Aya." Farfarello says, soothingly, remembering to use the redheaded assassin's assumed name.

Aya frowns and is about to say something terribly scathing, when Farfarello ducks back down to kneel before the bound assassin and take his cock in his mouth and flick his tongue across the slit of the quivering head in a manner that stops any arguments Aya might have, at all.

(Six Hours Later)

"Hn…it looks like string isn't your only fetish."

"You have no idea, Aya."

"I'd like to find out."

And in the darkness, Farfarello grins. "I thought you might."

(Now two frayed red threads intertwine to become one strong, unbreakable bond, each drawing strength from the other, two parts coming together to make an invulnerable whole. Which is just as it should be.)

-Owari-


End file.
